Clyde Moore's Call of Duty: Modern Warfare
by Clyde Moore
Summary: Following the war-stricken paths of "Soap" MacTavish and Shaun Nathans, Clyde Moore's Call of Duty: Modern Wafare adapts the famous video game into a work of fanfiction in which new allies, new enemies, and new perils await.


**F.N.G. **

_April 19th__, 2011 _

_Credenhill, UK_

_11 A.M._

A freshly-suited Captain John Price strode through the open doors into the warehouse. He was greeted by an impressive display of the weapons rooms across from him. The usual salute to the handler at the desk situated outside and he took a right down the vast and empty hallway.

At the end of the hall was a small room fitted with computer screens and television sets monitoring a training course in a neighboring warehouse. Standing in front of one of the screens was a fellow Special Air Service soldier, hands on hips, watching with great interest.

Price walked past and seated himself at a desk adjacent to the man. "Talk to me, Gaz." he said, flipping open a dull gray laptop in front of him.

Lt. Gaz Fairbrass scratched his head, contemplating what to say. "Well, good news first: the world's in great shape. We've got a civil war in Russia, government loyalists against Ultranationalist rebels, with 15,000 nukes at stake.

Price typed a password into a text box on the black screen. "Just another day at the office."

Gaz took his eyes of the computer and tossed a manila folder in front of Price; he opened it to a blown-up photo of a Middle-Eastern man garbed in a military outfit. He wore a pair of dark sunglasses, glinting in the light in which the photo was taken.

"Kahled Al-Asad. Currently the second-most powerful man in the Middle-East, and leader of the rebellion that's rising in Iraq. Word on the street is he's got the minerals to be top dog down there."

Price glanced at the sheet of paper underneath the photo, looking over bits and pieces of the information gathered by British intelligence. "And what's he got to do with it?"

"Intel shows he's dealt with one Antoly Dostoyevsky on more than one occasion."

"The Ultranationalist?"

"Right. Supplied his little rebellion from the start. The Dostoyevsky family isn't exactly what you would call...impoverished." Gaz said, rubbing his fingers together in the universal gesture for money.

"Hm. And the bad news?" Price looked up at the Lieutenant; he was back at the computer screen, watching intently.

Gaz gestured to the screen. "We've got a couple of new guys joining us today for the cargo ship mission. They're fresh out of selection."

Price looked more closely; the screen was cut into four squares, each one alternating between shots to a different camera. In the top right corner, the pair watched a tall, African-American man fire a handgun at a group of card-board stand-ups. He moved swiftly and powerfully, clearing every obstacle thrown at him as he moved from room to room. Garbed in regulatory uniform, he looked the unstoppable soldier Britain was proud to call it's own.

"This guy, here, is Shaun Nathans. He transferred from a joint American-British unit, top of his class. The Service snatched him up pretty quickly." Gaz's eyes followed the recruit as he glided down a set of stairs and tossed a stun grenade into a door on his left. All targets in the room were cleared in moments.

Price was impressed, but not fully convinced. "What was his completion time on the obstacle course out back?"

"17.2 seconds." Fairbrass smiled. He knew it by heart; it was the fastest time anyone had completed the course in seven years.

"Mac make him re-run it?"

The lieutenant chuckled. "Yeah. He claims he thought the kid cut corners. But you and I both know Mac never lets anyone slip past so easily. I think he just couldn't believe it himself.

Captain Price shifted his weight to the other leg. "Huh." He stared in amazement at the screen. "How'd he do in demolitions?"

Picking up a clipboard from the desk, Gaz read aloud, "Placed in top percentile, of thirty participants." He looked to his superior, who was still watching the screen.

"Hm…You mentioned another?"

"Oh. Right." Gaz moved to the desk. Opening up a profile page on the laptop, he zoomed in on the main information. A photo of a masculine Scot drew in Price's gaze. His dark hair, a military-cut Mohawk, topped his otherwise shaved head. His service information reported that he had seen seven years of combat in the Middle-East, had suffered two bullet wounds in his chest during his first week of deployment, and was back out on the front lines three weeks later. Price frowned. The boy wasn't even out of his early twenties.

"His name's Soap."

"I hope that's not the lad's real name." Price chuckled. He read the text underneath the photo to himself. _Sergeant_ _John Arthur MacTavish. "_Quite a fine name, there."

Gaz smiled to himself, and looked to the computer screen once more. Look's like our boy's done runnin' the course."

"I'm heading over to mission briefing. Finish up anything you're doing here and direct the recruits over to us by twelve-hundred hours." Captain Price turned towards the door.

"Yes, sir."

Sergeant Soap MacTavish had been placed with a small group of eleven to run laps around the base. They were to circle 'round until "told otherwise". Soap was well into his twenty-first lap when Gaz arrived. Standing at the facility's main entrance, he waited aside Mac, the staff's physical fitness supervisor.

As Soap covered the last stretch back to the entrance, the Mac's vague physique came into view. He sped up, as he was farther ahead of the others and allowed himself to slow to a paced jog. He acknowledged Lieutenant Fairbrass standing next to Mac, smiling patiently. He had been the one who was tasked with overseeing Soap and another recruit's weapons evaluation the day before. He was a sharp-witted man, patient, and smart-mouthed at times. Although second in command to his new unit's captain, he was far from lapdog when it came to special treatment. He admired the man.

If only Mac shared a iota of his patience.

"You run like old people screw!" he screamed at the approaching group. "I've seen Sandhurst Commandos run faster than you lot! Move, move, move!"

Soap suddenly became aware of the presence of the others behind him. He ran faster.

"What's the matter with you? You all want to be RTU'd?" Mac stretched his arm in front of him, bringing the group to a halt. "Soap! Captain Price wants to see you in Hanger one. Gaz will escort you." He looked past the recruit to the rest, two of which were collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily. "Oi! Did I say you could lounge around like a bunch of lazy whores waiting for round two?"

Gaz chuckled. "A charming conversationalist, isn't he?" Gaz said. Soap smiled and followed the lieutenant as he walked back towards the hanger. Mac's words faded as they moved farther away: "Line up, ladies! This isn't a damned charity walk - get your arses into gear! Move it!"

"Permission to ask what the captain wishes, sir?" MacTavish inquired. He had never met the man face to face.

Gaz ran a hand over his clean-shaven face and exhaled quickly. "No need to be formal around me, Sergeant. You're due for mission briefing."

Soap and a select few had been picked for a covert operations mission; they had spent two weeks in training before being chosen by the SAS. The mission, Soap knew, had to do with an Iraqis Freight ship which was reportedly transporting potentially dangerous cargo to an unknown location. The SAS, apparently, had a suspicion that it was headed for Russian territory, possibly to supply Ultranationalist troops in the Civil War currently raging in the country.

He was aware of who they were, but evidently the sergeant did not grasp the concept of how dangerous they could become if they got into bed with other nations. Antoly Dostoyevsky, the leader of the Ultranationalist party, had done under-the-table deals with many, including Khaled-Al Asad, a military commander in charge of his own uprising in Iraq. The SAS was keeping an eye on him as well.

The two crossed the main yard, littered with Humvees and M1 Abrams tanks. As Soap watched one of the tank's crews fuss with something inside the hatch, he was reminded of his father.

He had died days before Soap's eleventh birthday, out in the front lines staving off Iraqis infantry during the Gulf War. He had operated a British Challenger for six years, becoming well known around the MacTavishs' neighborhood as one of those hundreds of military martyrs that go unnoticed in everyday warfare.

He had loathed Saddam Hussein with a passion, and volunteered to head a unit of battle tanks during the invasion of Kuwait. Soap remembered pretending to pilot his tank on more than one occasion; he had dug through the sandy dunes in the Sahara Desert, woven in and out the thick, lush forests of the Amazon, tracked through the mud and dirt of the Everglades, saving people in peril from Hussein's army all the way. He was a hero, just like his dad.

Except heroes don't always return home.

Soap shook his head clear. They had reached Hanger one. The large metal doors opened at the push of a button on the exterior of the building. Gaz stepped to the side, signaling MacTavish in.

Inside, two men flanked Captain John Price, who stood across a long steel table from another soldier.

"It's the F.N.G., sir." one of them said.

"Right." Price looked the recruit down. "What the hell kind of name is Soap, eh?" His bluntness forced light laughter from everyone in the room. "How'd a moppet like you get past selection?"

Soap remained silent, obviously unsure of what to say. He looked to Gaz, who only walked past him to the end of the table. But Price's firm smile reassured him nonetheless.

"Sit down, lad. We're about to go over mission briefing."

While Gaz remained where he was, Soap took a seat across the table from Price, next to the other soldier, whom he had just now recognized as the other recruit, the American; he all but ignored MacTavish.

Price cleared his throat. "As most of you know, an Iraqis freighter said to be transporting nuclear materials that left the docks exactly eight days ago. Our informant that supplied the information seems to believe that the cargo is on it's way to an Ultranationalist camp in Russia." He looked to Nathans and MacTavish in particular when speaking. "The possession and transportation of these materials are illegal. Tensions with both the Middle-East and the Ultranationalist Party have been high between them and the United Kingdom. We heavily suspect another deal underway, as well. Therefore, our unit has been tasked with boarding and securing the ship for an extraction of all cargo aboard the ship."

Nathans never moved, while Soap shifted slightly in his chair. He had never been in on a covert operation before. It excited him.

"We will have another SAS team standing by, awaiting for confirmation to begin the extraction. Expect the crew aboard the ship to be heavily armed."

Price let the information sink in before continuing. "Sergeant Wallcroft, here, will get you situated with your load out."

The SAS soldiers standing to the left of the Captain stepped around the desk, ready to escort the two to the weaponry in Hanger Two.

"It is vital that we secure the cargo if confirmed to be nuclear. We don't need any more nukes being waved around over in Russia." He paused. "I trust you gentlemen will be ready for this?" The two stood from their chairs. They both nodded. "We leave at thirteen-hundred hours sharp. Any questions?"

Gaz spoke up. "Rules of engagement, sir?"

Price's expression never changed. "Crew expendable."


End file.
